The Ring of Five (21 page)

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Danny shivered, looking down at the vast complex with its towering walls and many courtyards.

"You can feel ... evil from it," Les said. Danny didn't comment. Yes, you could feel evil coming from the gloomy fortress, but you could also feel power: the fortress dominated everything around it.

"Over here is the market of Bree, where you will be based, Knutt." Spitfire was talking quickly now. Large clouds were moving in from the north of the map.

"The main hospital is closed. Vaunt, you will be operating out of a clinic to the west of the ghetto, just here...." Spitfire pointed to a spot beside a large area of close-packed houses and tenements. The air looked smoky. Danny leaned forward over the ghetto. He could actually smell the poverty and despair.

The cloud was closing fast, already wreathing the top stories of Grist.

"This is the main post office." Spitfire pointed to a once-magnificent building on one of the main thoroughfares, now run-down and shabby. "With luck Les will be doing deliveries to Grist, and you'll be able to stay in contact with Danny."

The cloud was sweeping across Westwald now, hiding the docklands, the old factories to the west belching smoke, the brooding bulk of Grist, the uncared-for boulevards and fancy stores and the strange cluster of poverty-stricken houses in the center. Finally the city was completely obscured.

Leaving Spitfire's classroom, Danny was surprised to see that it was early evening. He walked along behind the

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others, sunk in thought. Spitfire's map had brought home to him that the chances of succeeding in their mission were next to zero. How could they pit themselves against the Ring, the cruel masters of Grist, and hope to win?

The others headed off to tea, chattering excitedly about the mission. Danny didn't have the heart to eat. Slipping his coat over his shoulders, he ducked out the front door. It was dusk outside, and drizzling. He knew that he should be careful, that there might be another attempt on his life, but somehow he didn't care. It doesn't really matter, he told himself; the mission to Westwald is suicide anyway.

In this gloomy frame of mind he wandered along the edge of the shrubbery. The rain grew a little heavier, and dark was falling fast. He realized that he had reached the woods and had just turned to head back when he heard the first noise, a scuffling from the direction of the forest. The scuffling turned to running feet and heavy breathing as something forced its way through the undergrowth. Danny, his heart pounding, measured the distance to the main building, now barely visible. He cursed himself for coming so far. If he crossed the lawn he would be completely in the open. Better to move along the perimeter. He broke into a run, but whatever it was seemed to be shadowing him, just out of view, crashing through the branches. Danny ran until his lungs were burning, his breath coming in great racking gasps, but still he could not draw ahead. His pursuer was gaining on him, and he realized too late that the intention was to cut him off. Before he could act, a shape crashed through the shrubs

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onto the grass in front of him and advanced on him menacingly.

Danny's hands went to his coat pockets. The derringer was in there somewhere, and the Knife of Implacable Intention, but in his confusion he couldn't remember which pocket he had put them in. His hand closed on the lockpicks, then the false mustache. It was too late. His pursuer was on him. A man, wild-eyed, his hair matted and tangled, his clothing torn and stained. He was drawing breath in ragged gulps. Yet despite the unshaven face and bloodshot, desperate eyes, Danny recognized him.

"Sranzer," he gasped. It was the border guard he had met on the first night traveling to Wilsons, the man who had disappeared and the mention of whose name had so upset Valant. But he was far from the arrogant, sneering official he had then been. The man looked to be at the end of his strength, hunted and desperate. He swayed, and without thinking, Danny put out a hand to steady him. Sranzer flinched as if he had been struck.

"It's all right," Danny said, "you're safe." Sranzer gave a harsh laugh.

"You think so? You're the Cherb boy, aren't you? Caulfield?"

"Well, yesss ...," Danny said cautiously, thinking that there was no way Sranzer could be the person who was trying to kill him.

"Been trying to get you on your own for days," Sranzer said. "Can't trust nobody in this place."

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"What do you want with me?" Danny was mystified.

"Got something for you. Open it in a safe place." Sranzer took a battered and stained envelope out from under his jacket and thrust it into Danny's hands. Danny took it. As he did so, he saw something strange in the border guard's eyes. Just for a moment it appeared that Sranzer pitied Danny. But why? Danny decided he must be mistaken. And then suddenly Danny noticed that Sranzer was awkwardly carrying his right arm, as if it was injured.

"Listen, we need to get you indoors. You need food, and that arm needs to be looked at."

"You're not getting me in there." Sranzer's voice rose to a pitch and he backed away from Danny. "Not that place!"

"Wait!" Danny cried out. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," Sranzer said, "just away from here." He looked as if he was about to bolt back into the shrubbery.

"Hold on," Danny said, fumbling in his pockets. Sranzer watched him suspiciously. Eventually Danny found what he was looking for--the leather purse. He pulled out several notes and handed them to Sranzer.

"Here, take this." Sranzer looked at the bills for a moment, then snatched them from Danny's hand.

"That'll help. For a day or two, anyhow," he said ungraciously. He looked around at the building again.

"I better go. I spent too long here already."

"I could get you some food."

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"No." Sranzer said. "Anyway, you mightn't be feeling so generous once you see what's in that there envelope."

With that, he dashed back into the shrubbery. Danny waited until the sound of the man crashing through the brush was gone; then he turned to the envelope. It was thin--there couldn't be very much in it. Sranzer had said to open it in a safe place ... the Roosts. There would be no one there at this time of night.

Walking quickly, Danny made his way back to the Roosts. He took the steps two at a time. The boys' Roosts were empty, the stove gleaming softly. There was a smell of warm timber, mingling with a faint but not particularly annoying odor of socks. It was the first time he had been in the Roosts on his own, and he thought how homey a place it was. The last homey place, he thought, that he might see for a long time.

He sat down on his bed, and angled the lamp above it toward him. He opened the envelope slowly. It smelt of sweat, and there were stains on it that looked suspiciously like dried blood. He felt inside the envelope. There was a single sheet of newspaper in it. He took it out and unfolded it. It was the
Times
, dated several weeks earlier--dated in fact three days after he had left home. His eyes ran down the page. In an instant, the world changed. It was as if someone had put a great weight on him, pressing him down into the bed. The cozy surroundings of the barracks became sinister and threatening, and the gentle crackle of the fire and the sigh of the wind outside became sounds of mockery. The paper fell from his trembling hand and

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lay on the bed, the headline stark and terrible. Beneath the headline

LOCAL COUPLE SLAIN

was a photograph of his mother and father, both smiling a little shyly at the camera--a photograph he recognized, for it had been on the mantelpiece at home.

Beneath that was his own photograph, taken in his school uniform only the year before, yet seeming now to belong to a long-ago time of innocence.

SON MISSING.

He forced himself to pick up the paper and read. In some recess of his heart a voice said that it could not be true, that they were not dead, that they were still waiting for him in the big house. And at the same time the cold hard voice of reality said: this is true.

The words streamed past his eyes without his understanding them. "Brutal killing." "Discovered by neighbors." He thought he had read every word on the page, and then realized that there was another section below the fold. He looked at it, not wanting to take in any more, but unable to stop reading.

SUSPECT SEEN FLEEING SCENE.

Police want to interview a man wearing dark clothing seen fleeing the scene. He is described as being of medium build and having a distinctive mustache.

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Beneath this was an identikit photograph, wrong in some details, but accurate in the most important ones. An unmistakable face, for Danny had spent most of the day with its owner. The face that looked out of the paper at him was that of Marcus Brunholm.

Danny did not know how or when he had started running, or when the storm had begun. He only knew that he was running through the forest, branches whipping at his face, his clothes soaked with rain. All he wanted was to put as much distance between himself and Wilsons as he could, never to see it again. But no matter how fast and how far he ran, Brunholm's face in the identikit photograph danced mockingly in his mind.

At last he could run no longer. As he staggered and stumbled, his foot was caught by a briar and he fell facedown in the sodden leaf mold. Around him the wind and rain lashed at the leafless branches. He twisted his body until he could see the sky, a full moon appearing in the gaps between fast-moving storm clouds. His hip ached where he had banged into a tree. His face was caked in dirt and dried blood from where the branches had whipped it. Wearily he pulled himself upright. He was in the middle of the forest, and lost. He could not--would not--go back to Wilsons. There was nothing to take him back to the Upper World anymore. Barely knowing what he was doing, he pushed his way through the undergrowth, repeatedly stumbling and falling, until at last a clearing opened in front of him. And in the clearing stood a familiar building.

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He barely made it to the door of the summerhouse, where he and Les had talked and lazed in the sunshine. He struggled to close the door against the storm, stumbled across the room and threw himself down on the window seat. A length of threadbare curtain lay on the windowsill. He pulled it over himself and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

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NURSE FLANAGAN

"Wakey wakey, sleepyhead. Rise and shine, lie-abed. Get up, get up, before ... you're ...
dead
!"

Danny opened his eyes and froze. A shining blade hovered an inch from his face. He struggled to focus his eyes against the watery early-morning sun, then recognized the face looking down at him.

"Vicky?" he said.

"How do you know my name?" the siren said.

"We let you out of the cell. In Wilsons. You remember?"

"Oh yes, suppose you did." She sniffed. The knife wavered, and then withdrew.

"I nearly slit you," she said, looking a little dis appointed. "Easier when someone's asleep. Obvious, really."

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"I'm glad you didn't," Danny said, sitting up. Then it hit him again. His parents.

"What's wrong?" Vicky asked.

"I ... I ... My parents are dead."

"Oh. Did you kill them?"

"No! Of course not."

"Can't blame me for asking. Since you're on the run and all. There's an awful fuss going on up at Wilsons."

"Don't mention that place to me!"

"Touchy, touchy." Vicky's eyes narrowed and she ran her thumb along the blade of the knife thoughtfully. "No point in shouting at me, you know."

"Sorry. It's not your fault."

"That's right," she said, brightening. "It isn't. The whole place is in an uproar looking for someone, probably you."

"I don't want them to find me."

"Then you'd better get out of here."

"I don't know how."

Vicky paused and put her head on one side, listening.

"What is it?" Danny asked anxiously. Then he heard it, carried in on the wind, faint and distant: the sound of barking.

"What's that?"

"Bloodhounds," Vicky replied.

"Bloodhounds?"

"On your trail, I'd say. They belong to Brunholm." An image came into Danny's head: Brunholm standing over his parents' bodies. His fists clenched. Then the tone of the barking changed. The dogs were howling now.

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"They've picked up your scent," Vicky remarked.

"Can you get me out of here?" Danny asked.

"Why would I do that?"

"You owe me one. We got you out of jail."

"By my reckoning, that slate is wiped clean."

"How?" Danny demanded.

"I could have cut your throat when you were asleep, but I didn't." Her voice was firm, and Danny knew there was no point in arguing.

"I can give you money," he said.

"Naw. Got plenty of money hidden away. Besides, there's nowhere for the likes of me to spend it." She picked her nails with the tip of the knife. The howling was getting louder and nearer.

"Is there anything else I can give you?" he said desperately.

"Well ... I don't suppose you've got a new dress, or a bit of makeup--anything like that. You get tired of the same old look all the time," Vicky said, moodily, staring at her reflection in a dusty old mirror that hung from a nail on the wall.

"No," Danny said, deflated. He thought for a moment. "Hang on." He fished in the pockets of his coat. "What about this?"

He produced the limp ginger wig he had been given in the Stores. Vicky looked at it with interest, then took it from his hand. She fitted it over her head and looked at herself in the mirror, flicking it back with her hand. Danny thought it looked ridiculous, but Vicky seemed quite taken with it, turning first to one side and then to the other.