Peter Dickinson - Shadow of a Hero

Now, because of Mr Orestes’ voice, she changed her mind and said, ‘Red.’

Another pause.

‘You’re sure?’

She gulped and said, ‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps you had better give me the number so that I can enquire for myself.’

Letta had written it down while she was waiting for the ghoul-girl to finish. Half-panicking she read it out.

‘Thank you. I will call in a few minutes.’

‘Wait. I, er . . . there won’t be anyone there for about ten minutes.’

‘Very good. Thank you.’

Only as she put the receiver down did it strike her that she ought to have made a mistake over the number. Then he couldn’t have called back. She’d have time to think. What could she say now? She couldn’t find the bike? No, it mustn’t be anything that he could find out in the end was a lie, because then he’d know she’d been lying about the packages. He could find the bike himself somehow. He could ask the man at the garage. He’d known she and Momma had been there, taken things away. The panniers had been locked.

Or she could change her mind again, tell him she’d made a mistake about the colours, after all. He’d just think she was a stupid little girl . . .

Biddie let her in.

‘A man just called,’ she said. ‘He was asking for Vivian’s sister. I said did he mean Letta, because if he did you weren’t back, and he said he’d try again, and I said he’d have to wait five minutes because we’ve got a trick phone. Is that OK?’

‘Thanks.’

‘I thought your brother’s name was Van. Is it short for . . .’

‘No. I’m sorry, Biddie. I don’t want to involve you, but . . .’

‘Do you want me out of the way while you’re talking?’

‘Doesn’t matter. We’ll be talking in Field.’

Biddie was frowning at her, really worried.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Letta. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Is it?’

‘No, but I can’t tell you. Oh, Biddie!’

‘I’m sure it’s not your fault. I’ll make some sticky sweet cocoa.’

Letta waited by the telephone. The red light which showed you couldn’t use it was still glowing. After a little while it went out. A few seconds later the phone rang. The moment she answered Mr Orestes said, ‘What can you tell me?’

‘He was coming down the motorway. A van pulled out and pushed him into the barrier. He’s got a broken arm and collar-bone and ribs, and his foot’s smashed.’

‘My regrets. Where is the motor cycle?’

No, thought Letta. If that’s all he can say about Van, I’m not going to tell him I made a mistake. I didn’t. I was right.

‘At a garage at King’s Worthy,’ she said. ‘A policeman told us where it was.’

‘A policeman? Us?’

‘Just a traffic policeman. My mother drove me out. She doesn’t know. Look, we haven’t got all that much time before this phone goes off again. I’m sorry. It was the best I could do.’

‘Understood. Go on.’

‘My mother was telephoning when I got Van’s stuff out of the panniers. Nobody was watching. I got the false bottoms open OK, but there wasn’t anything under them.’

‘The false bottoms? Explain. There are supposed to be two packets.’

‘Yes, I know. One yellow and one black. Van said they were in his panniers, under the false bottoms. There’s a trick with the key to open them.’

‘That is where he told you to look?’

‘Yes. He told me exactly. All about the keys and so on.’

Pause.

‘When will you be seeing your brother again?’

‘Tomorrow, probably. It depends how ill he is. Look, I really don’t want to worry him.’

‘We are speaking of Varina, my dear. You could surely ask him . . .’

‘Only if I get him alone. And listen, he doesn’t remember what happened . . .’

‘Nothing?’

‘I don’t know. He just said he didn’t remember about the journey. I don’t know how far back.’

A longer pause.

‘Listen,’ said Letta. ‘Time’s nearly up. I’m not supposed to be using this phone. My friend’s parents will be coming back any moment. Don’t ring back. I’ll try and think of something better, and if I find anything out I’ll call you from a phone box tomorrow.’

‘And meanwhile, if you could go back to the motor cycle . . .’

The telephone gave its warning buzz.

‘I will if I can,’ gabbled Letta, trying to fill the time without putting her foot in it at this last moment. ‘But I really don’t think . . .’

The line went dead and the red light glowed. Letta blew out a gust of the spare breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her heart was pounding so that it almost hurt. It could have been worse, she thought. It could have been much, much worse. She’d told several lies, but provided she stuck to her story there wasn’t anything anyone could find out about, unless they searched her room. Now all she had to do was get rid of the packages. You couldn’t put something like that in a dustbin. And she’d have to think of something to tell Van . . .

Dazedly she made her way into the kitchen. Biddie was pouring hot milk into two mugs. They sat down at the kitchen table. Biddie’s parents didn’t approve of sugar and never bought it, but they collected give-away packets from restaurants and airlines in case they had visitors less high-minded than themselves. Letta slowly tore five open and dribbled the sugar into her mug, then stirred, hynotizing herself with the brown eddy.

‘Did you hear any of that?’ she said. ‘Did I sound as if I was lying?’

‘I don’t think so – just dead worried.’

‘You can say that again.’

Letta sucked at the cloying cocoa – just what she needed. Good old Biddie.

‘Can I tell you?’ she said. ‘I’ve got to tell someone. I promised Van I wouldn’t . . . Oh, hell!’

‘Did you understand what you were promising?’

‘Not really. Not what it meant.’

‘Then it wasn’t a promise. Wait. If it’s as bad as that, then I’m not going to promise anything. I can’t. Don’t you see? I’ll do my best, but . . . well . . . that’s how it is. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re right. It’s like the daughter of Olla.’

‘Come again?’

‘They used her. She didn’t understand. It’s one of our stories. Hell. Listen. Suppose somebody told you there were two packages he wanted you to collect, and you’ve got to do it secretly, and you mustn’t tell anyone. They’re in a hiding-place. Two hiding-places, because they’ve got to be kept separate. They’re quite safe like that. They’re probably safe if they’re together, but they’re quite safe if they’re separate . . .’

Biddie nodded and stared at the table, doodling a blob of spilt cocoa with her forefinger.

‘This somebody isn’t a scientist?’ she said. ‘Nothing to do with scientists?’

‘No. I’m pretty sure.’

‘I was trying to think of something else. It’s got to be a bomb, though, hasn’t it? Explosives in one packet, timer and detonator in the other.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Bad.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d better tell me. You’ve pretty well told me, in fact, haven’t you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Something to do with Varina?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought that was all bagpipe-dancing and poems about mountains.’

‘It’s people. It’s people taking my grandmother away, and the body of a girl they thought was my mother, and no-one ever seeing them again. Remember, I told you about that.’

‘I am remembering. It’s like the worst kind of nightmare.’

So Letta started right back at the festival. Some of it Biddie had heard before, but bits and pieces in no special order. It took a while. Biddie asked a few questions, getting things clear. When Letta had finished she sat thinking.