The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue (36 page)

So, Leo had been right. One of
the Hidden had been trying to help them. But who? Why? The questions knocked around in Ralf’s head for the remainder of the week. In contrast to the previous problems he’d had to consider, though, this mystery spurred him onwards rather than draining his resolve. Someone had been trying to help! The Fall Gloria’s Spirit Guide had been using was now closed but someone was on their side. The feeling of being marooned in the past left Ralf completely. Whilst before he’d felt like the captain of a wrecked vessel stranded with a skeleton crew, now he felt as if they’d been thrown a lifeline. A rescue ship was on the horizon. True, they couldn’t get to it yet, but it was within signalling distance all the same. The thought filled him with purpose.

In less than two months this would all be over, one way or another so he took things one day at a time and tried to focus on the present. Even at school he became more determined. His marks improved and he had a spring in his step as he walked to lessons.

It was the Friday before the District Run and Ralf had all but made up his mind to have a crack at it. What harm could it do, he reasoned? It would keep him occupied on Saturday, physically and mentally, and he might even enjoy it. He went to his form room at the end of the day to collect his Algebra book and was wondering if he could get an hours study in before fishing that evening as he opened the lid of his desk.

Lying there, on top of his French grammar, was a large, perfect, snow-white feather.

Ralf’s eyes clouded. He slammed the desk lid and stormed from the room.

‘It’s a feather,’ said Val that afternoon, as they sloshed down towards the High Street. ‘What are you in such a flap about?’ She grinned impishly at her own joke.

‘Ha, flipping ha Val!’ said Ralf. ‘They’re saying I’m a coward. I was going to do the race but now it’ll look like I’m doing it because I let them get to me. Now I feel like not running just to show them how little I care!’

‘But you do care though, innit?’ said Alfie.

‘Yeah, I do,’ Ralf admitted. ‘But I won’t be pushed around by a load of over-privileged idiots who think the most important thing going on in the world right now is a stupid cross-country run!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The District Run

Contrary to expectation, the morning of
the District Run dawned crisp and sunny. From his attic window, Ralf watched the sun rise over the tip of the peninsular and saw the first of the fishing boats coming home. He’d been awake for a while worrying about what he was going to do. The butterflies thundering around in his stomach had made sleep pretty much impossible anyway.

There was so much going on inside his head that Ralf wondered whether, even if he decided to run, he’d actually be able to co-ordinate his legs.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Hilda said gently when he appeared at breakfast.

She’d made bacon and eggs, which was a real treat, but the eggs smiling up at him made his stomach churn. He spooned them into his mouth though (he couldn’t waste them) and they slithered into his stomach to join the butterflies.

‘You want me to run, don’t you?’

Hilda sat down beside him and patted his arm. ‘It would be nice to have your name on the cup,’ she admitted.

He pushed his plate to one side and frowned. ‘But if I do run, who should I run for?’ he asked. ‘Village or School? Even if I cross the line first, it’s a no-win situation. If the Crispin’s lot don’t kill me, the villagers will!’

She ruffled his hair.  ‘I don’t think you should run for anybody. Do it for yourself.’

Two and a half hours later he was standing on King’s Hadow High Street trying to listen to a rambling, Leo-style pep talk over the sound of his own rumbling stomach.

‘I can’t believe I’m doing this!’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a nightmare!’

‘Yep,’ said Alfie, smiling. ‘A six-mile slog through every bog and ditch in the area. And nuffin’ but grief from both sides, whether you win or lose!

  Ralf nodded sickly. He wondered if he might be seeing those eggs again quite soon. He looked around.  Everyone who should’ve been there was there – as well as a fair few who shouldn’t. It seemed like the whole of King’s Hadow village had turned out to watch the ‘Off’ and most of St Crispin’s School, Dark Ferry High and the Convent School too. He spotted a lot of faces he knew in the crowds, including Ben Cheeseman, who should have been delivering milk and several shopkeepers who’d put up ‘Back in Five Minutes’ signs that no one was there to read.

A few seconds later as Ralf was trying his best to look nonchalant tying a shoe he heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps and looked up to find King towering over him.

‘Nice outfit!’ King drawled. ‘Did your sister make it for you?’

Ralf sighed. Having taken Hilda’s advice to heart he’d spurned his bottle green and burgundy school kit, avoided the traditional King’s Hadow navy and dressed in neutral white. ‘Very funny King,’ Ralf said. ‘What exactly do you want?’

‘I just wanted to wish you luck. You’re going to need it.’

Ralf willed himself calm. ‘May the best man win.’

‘Oh, I will. No one’s going to stand in my way, do you get my meaning?’

Ralf squinted back up at him. ‘Is that a threat, Julian?’

‘No,’ King smiled. ‘It’s a promise.’ He stalked away to join a group of green and burgundy draped Crispin’s boys but turned to make a parting shot. ‘You look like a stick of chalk in that get up, you know that, don’t you?’

When the time came, Ralf walked over to the judges’ table where the runners were gathering to formally register. As he approached Asinus, who was representing the
school, gave him a curt nod and a scowl. Gordon Kemp was the village judge, though, and he smiled warmly as Ralf signed his name and winked when Asinus called for quiet.

As a man of God, Reverend Denning was considered impartial and had been appointed the third and most senior judge. He cleared his throat importantly.

‘Right, all of you. You know the rules so I won’t waste time going through them again,’ he said. And then, being Reverend Denning and, therefore, totally in love with the sound of his own voice, he proceeded to explain the rules again.

‘You will each be given a card marked with a set of boxes, numbered one to ten. There are ten checkpoints on the route and at each you’ll find a different stamp and pad of ink. Stamp your card in the appropriate box to prove that you’ve visited each checkpoint.’ Denning took a breath and visibly swelled at the importance of his next words. ‘I am the adjudicator of this race and I’m here to tell you that runners not turning in a full card at the end of the race will be disqualified. Is that clear?’

There was a general murmuring of agreement and a lot of nodding as each boy took his card and Denning ticked off their names on a clipboard.

‘Much of this race is not supervised,’ Asinus added. ‘Anything that has even the faintest whiff of ungentlemanly behaviour will result in immediate disqualification!’

Ralf looked at the confused face of Ben Cheeseman’s eldest boy who stood next to him and said: ‘He means no cheating.’

‘Right.’

‘Good luck, Fred,’ he said.

Fred grinned back at him. ‘See this?’ he said, turning and tugging the back of his navy King’s Hadow jersey.

‘Yes?’

‘Get used to it. It’s the only part of me you’re going to see today!’

The two boys laughed and shook hands, understanding each other perfectly.

‘Runners to the starting line please.’ Denning’s voice was tinny through the megaphone.

Ralf walked to the line in a dream. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Ambrose had performed another Time Stop. It seemed to take an hour for him to cross the ten yards to the start of the race and in that time he saw everything with ice-cold clarity. Major Kingston-Hawke and his fur-stoled wife sat on chairs at the edge of the line. Next to them, Tank Tatchell and a group of other Crispin’s boys huddled in a group. Mr Hatcher on the opposite side of the street looked as stiff and cold, in his white coat, as one of his own fish. The Munton brothers lounged against the Village Hall, chewing tobacco and spitting.

The church clock began to strike the hour and Ralf was at the front of the group toeing the line next to King and Aston. The bell tolled again and again. He looked up from the toe of his white plimsoll to the stretch of empty road in front of him and the sea of faces on either side. Leo, standing with a group of spectators to his left, was shuffling cards so rapidly that his hands were a blur, but his eyes were a million miles away. Val was there too, fists clenched, eyes sparkling, wearing a green skirt and, oddly, a pair of tightly laced hockey boots. Behind her, right at the back, was Captain Keen. Ralf tried to catch his eye and smile but the man’s eyes were roaming the crowd. A cloud passed over the sun.

The shriek of the whistle was a complete shock. In his trancelike state, Ralf had missed the end of the clock chimes and runners either side of him surged forward, leaving him standing. He jumped as if stung and bolted. He didn’t just run – he practically flew.

His feet thudded on to the cobbles and his lungs filled with fresh, sea air. In six long strides he’d closed the gap between himself and the leaders and by the eighth he was inching ahead. His body adjusted itself; he relaxed his arms and found his rhythm. He’d always been good. But, since he’d woken up to the fact that he was a Turnarounder, he realised with fierce pride that, for him, running was only slightly more complicated than breathing.

He’d been jogging for about half an hour and had got seven of his ten boxes stamped. He was clutching his card in a rather sweaty palm as he approached the eighth checkpoint at the gate to Sefton’s field. The old bull was pacing restlessly and snorting in a field that was more mud than grass. Ralf stamped his card and murmured a few quiet words to the unsettled animal before risking a look back the way he’d come.

Most of the runners were bunched in a tight group about
two hundred yards away, bar a few stragglers who were dotted at intervals further behind. At the front of the lead group King and Fred Cheeseman were neck and neck. The village boy wore a pained expression and his arms looked tight. King, on the other hand, looked comfortable – too comfortable. Ralf had to widen the gap. He took a deep breath and cut down a puddled track towards the spiral of wood smoke that rose from the gypsy camp.

There were calls of encouragement and good-natured jokes as he passed the painted caravans but he didn’t take much notice. His attention was entirely focussed on the next marker at the very edge of the trees where Kat, Leo, Val, Alfie and about fifteen King’s Hadow Primary kids were huddled, waiting. They saw him and streamed out to flank him either side.

‘What’s going on?’

‘There are twenty Crispin’s boys hidden in the woods,’ said Kat jogging beside Ralf. ‘They didn’t look friendly, so I went and fetched the others.’

‘It’s an ambush, innit!’ gasped Alfie.

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kat.

‘Me and me Crew’ll back you,’ said Alfie indicating ‘The Crew’ who were silent and grim faced as they ran, just concentrating on keeping their legs moving.

Ralf stopped suddenly and the others stumbled to a halt next to him.

‘What’re you doing?’ Valen cried.

‘I’m stopping,’ said Ralf. ‘What’s the point? It’s only a race. If having his name on a cup means so much to King, let him have it.’

‘You can’t give up now!’ Leo exclaimed. ‘You’ve got to beat them, Wolf, you know you have!’

‘Leo, it’s not
just a race any more!’ Ralf shouted, angrily. ‘They’re out to get us. One of you might get seriously hurt!’

‘Stuff that,’ said Alfie.

‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said Leo. ‘Come on Ralf. We’re wasting time! This is important – not just for King’s Hadow but for everything!’

Ralf nearly laughed. ‘Everything?’

‘Just trust me, alright,’ said Leo. ‘I don’t know why, but it’s important that you finish this race.’ Leo shook him gently. ‘And it’s important you win!’

‘You could Shift round ‘em while we keep ‘em busy?’ Alfie suggested quietly so Kat wouldn’t hear.

Ralf shook his head. ‘If I’m going to win this thing I’m going to do it fairly.’ Then he smiled, eyes shining. ‘But, you lot aren’t actually competing so whatever you do won’t be cheating,’ he said.

They grinned at each other.

‘Just don’t get caught!’

The next eleven minutes and twelve seconds lasted exactly that – eleven minutes and twelve seconds, but things happened so quickly it felt like Time itself was part of the race.

One minute Ralf was running in sunshine, the next everything was tinged green as he crossed under the leaves of Tarzy Wood. A second later he was drenched in moss flecked shadows and tangy sap smell as he passed under the older trees. His feet slapped into puddles and sheets of water flew up each side. Leo was to his right and Val to his left, matching him stride for stride, whilst Alfie had dashed in front to set the pace. The kid was fast – really fast. The wiry ten year old snapped orders at the trailing Primary kids who instantly accelerated and fanned out into the wood. Kat joined them, keeping her eyes on two of the smallest girls.

Ralf’s heart quickened as he moved deeper into the trees. It was quiet – unnervingly so. His eyes flicked to either side, seeking signs of attack but it was hard to see in the dim light. Everything was in shadow, apart from an odd patch of haze to their right. Haze? Ralf craned his neck as they ran past it. A triangular patch of shimmer hung in the air about a foot from the ground by the side of a patch of nettles.

‘A Fall!’ he gasped.

Leo pointed ahead and to their left. ‘And there’s another one!’

They spotted three more Falls in as many minutes but had neither the opportunity nor desire to examine them further.

‘Keep going,’ Leo urged. ‘And keep your eyes open!’

They pressed on and, over the sound of his own tense breathing, Ralf now heard the slap of running feet not far behind. King and the other runners had entered the wood.

Even though they knew it was coming, the first attack took them completely by surprise. Ross Childs darted out of the bushe
s to the left, knocking two of the Crew down like skittles. Childs dodged Val’s initial move, but not her second, and Ralf just glimpsed his wild face contort in pain as he was thrown away from them. There was a yelp and a thud behind and then Val was back.

Movement in the undergrowth up ahead gave away the next ambush and Leo and Val Shifted mid-step to tackle Aston and Barclay. There was scuffling and blows were exchanged but Ralf kept his eyes on the figure of Alfie who was whipping his head from side to side, pointing and shouting instructions.

Ralf paused and shoved his card down the front of his shorts. It wasn’t hygienic, or even very comfortable, but it was the only thing he could think of that would keep it safe and allow him to run with his hands free.

Four seconds later he was really glad he’d done this because a fist came sailing towards his face, seemingly out of nowhere. And that was when things started to get really hairy.

The fist was attached to the arm of a positively demonic Peter Mallison whose unfortunate face looked even more purple than usual. Ralf’s mind told him to duck. Fortunately, his body ignored this ridiculous advice and he flung both arms out. He enclosed Mallison’s hand in both of his own and, taking a quick step backward, twisted his wrists sharply to the right. Mallison shrieked, pitched forward drunkenly and Ralf let go a second before the boy’s face made contact with the muddy forest floor.