Turning Point (17 page)

‘What?'

‘It's gone ten.'

Scott struggled out of the nest of blankets he'd made on the floor, leaving Hilary the couch. He must have been tired, not even noticing the rigid hardness of the floorboards under the thin carpet.

‘You look awful. Here.' Hilary passed over a mug of coffee. ‘I got some lenses.'

‘You've been out?'

‘I was their first customer. The shop assistant was curious so I told her I wanted them for clubbing tonight. I took the money from your pocket. Hope that's okay.' Scott nodded only half-listening, a dull throbbing headache pounding against his temples. ‘By the way, your photo's in the paper.' Hilary handed across the newspaper that she'd picked up at the supermarket.

Instantly wide awake, Scott stared down at the front page. It wasn't a particularly good likeness, but the grainy black and white image had already gift-wrapped him into someone definitely guilty of something. ‘They didn't waste much time,' he said, his tone as bitter as the coffee he was drinking. Cheap supermarket stuff made from the dregs of floor sweepings. He rested his mug on the carpet. ‘I can't drink this. Isn't there any tea?'

Hilary shook her head. ‘Couldn't find any. It tastes horrid, I know, but try and drink it.'

Scott got to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. A square box with a frosted-glass window for light, ramshackle cupboards hung from one wall posing as fitted units, with an old stove, its burners dulled with fat and grime, a sink, and a fridge lined up underneath. He hadn't seen the bedroom but guessed, like the rest of Glady's flat, it was equally poverty stricken and soulless – without any sense of personality – exactly like he felt. He'd slept fully clothed. It wasn't a big deal but a shower would help. Opening a cupboard, he peered in. ‘There's always a tea bag.' Hilary caught the sound of tins being moved around. ‘Yep, thought so,' Scott called. ‘One, lost in a corner. At last the day is beginning to pick up.'

Scott came back into the sitting room, his face buried in his mug. Hilary hadn't moved. She held the newspaper rigidly in front of her, the fingers clutching the edge white with strain. ‘I'm sorry.' Her voice broke. Dropping the newspaper on the couch, she fumbled through her pockets, pulling out a tissue.

‘Tulsa?' She nodded, burying her face in her hands. ‘And Dad?' Scott said in a dead voice. His tea forgotten, he stretched out his hand for the newspaper.

‘It's on page three. Scott… please don't!'

Ignoring the anguish uppermost in her voice, he flicked over the pages his eyes skimming the paragraph. Then, his expression steely and unflinching, he read it again as if trying to make sense of the words.

The cottage on the outskirts of the village of Oddisham is the property of Mr William Anderson, the eminent scientist. Recently returned to his home in Cornwall after addressing the United Nations in Geneva, Mr Anderson is still missing. His sixteen-year-old son, Scott, is being actively sought by police in connection with a shooting incident outside Falmouth Comprehensive in which two people were killed. A body recovered from the fire has been sent for forensic examination. It's thought likely to be that of the owner.

George Beale, who farms the land around the cottage, when interviewed described the father-son family as quiet, always keeping to themselves. ‘Nice kid, used to ride a bike,' he commented to our reporter.

A great bleeding void cut across Scott's chest. He rattled the pages savagely, wanting to tear them into shreds to match his life, now reduced to a few paragraphs in a newspaper. Okay, so he still had a mother and a sister – except he didn't, not really. He'd only met them a couple of time; the last fifteen years had been all about his dad. And now he was gone.

It was a stop-go road to nowhere, endlessly trawling streets and criss-crossing the city, frequently stopping just long enough for Hilary to ask directions; only to be met with, “Sorry, can't help you, I am a stranger meself.”

The directory in the library had offered a bewildering list of industrial sites, an army of black blobs dotted around the map of the city like nettles in a field of corn. Hilary had visited only the one time, and not having an address they decided to check them alphabetically. The weather didn't help, the frost of the previous night replaced by a cold drizzle, the air thick and unmoving under its pall of steel-grey cloud. None of the sites were particularly easy to locate. Twice, they'd been directed back to a site already checked and it was one o'clock before they finally found where the furniture depository was located, Hilary recognising it by the position and number of the CCTV cameras. Besides that, its tin-clad units were no different from any of the other sites they'd visited, a line of concrete posts strung with barbed wire around the boundary, and double gates at the entrance tightly shut and accessible only by key code. Except here the gates stood open, blocked by a row of scarlet fire-engines. A pall of acrid smoke hovered over the site and heaps of smouldering rubble lay everywhere, yellow hosepipes straddling the concrete surface.

Scott skidded to a halt. He felt a tug on his jacket and caught the muttered, ‘Oh my God! We're too late.'

He swivelled round, alarmed by Hilary's wide-eyed stare, the fake lenses masking the obvious anguish in her expression. ‘What's happening, Scott?' she whispered. She grabbed at her mouth. Snatching off her helmet, she flung herself off the bike and ducked behind a wall.

Scott kicked the bike stand into place and quickly followed. He caught the sound of retching and saw Hilary crouched in a corner, her body shaking.

‘I can't do this any more, Scott,' she whispered wiping her mouth. Keeping his face averted from the pool of vomit on the ground, he pulled her upright. ‘I thought I could but I'm terrified. The men behind this – we can't fight them, they're too clever. They know what we're doing even before we do.' Her voice rose hysterically. Wrapping his arms tightly round her, he hugged her to him.

‘You all right, miss?'

A policeman stood next to the motorbike, watching them curiously. Hilary pulled abruptly away. ‘I think it was the burger I ate last night. I was feeling rotten all night.'

‘Yeah, tell me about it. We're not using that place again.' Scott gabbled the words, his face burning up.

‘Okay, then, if you sure you're all right.'

Hilary's lip quivered. ‘Yes, thank you,' she said her voice faint.

‘What happened over there?' Scott nodded in the direction of the fire-engines, desperate to direct attention away from Hilary, the officer examining her white face with concern. ‘Witness says the place blew apart when they opened up. It was a furniture store – went up like a rocket. The fire brigade had their work cut out to contain it, I can tell you. Fortunately, they managed to stop it spreading to the other units.'

‘An accident?'
Hell!
Scott gulped at his stupidity. His girlfriend was sick and he was showing more interest in the fire than her wellbeing. Rigid with fear, he eyed the officer relieved to find his grave expression of concern unchanged.

‘Most likely someone with a grudge.' The officer seemed happy to chat and Scott relaxed a little.

‘Was anyone hurt?' Hilary said. She clutched at her stomach, leaning against the wall. Worried she was about to throw-up again, Scott tucked his arm through hers. She needed to be strong now – one false word and they'd be for it.

‘One fatality; another seriously injured. Why are you interested?' The policeman's tone was suddenly keen, penetrating.

‘We're not… except… you know
…
curiosity.' Scott felt himself tense up. With enormous effort, he tried to relax his shoulders aiming them into a shrug.

‘Live round here, do you?'

Scott forced a smile. ‘Visiting – a friend from uni.'

‘Okay, then. Off you go – if you're sure you're all right, miss.'

Hilary smiled briefly. ‘I'm fine except I've gone off burgers.' With her face angled towards the pavement, she busied herself tucking a strand of loose hair into place. Replacing her helmet, she climbed back on the bike.

Scott flicked the ignition, the bike responding instantly.

‘Good bike, that. New, is it?'

‘Not really; it just gets polished a lot.' Scott muttered, feeling sweat break out on his forehead.
Holy crap!
What if the policeman asked to see his driving licence? His hands began to shake and he tightened his grip on the handlebars to keep them from betraying him. Anxious not to give an impression of being in a hurry, he raised his hand in a brief salute, easing the bike slowly away from the kerb. Swinging round the corner, away from the sharp eyes of the watching policeman, he took in a much-needed breath. ‘Do you think he recognised us?' he called over his shoulder.

Hilary didn't reply. There was no need, Scott already knew the answer. A crime had been committed and the police would check everything including a couple of nosey parkers asking questions. It would be standard practice to check the number plate.

He pulled to a stop and, fishing in his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet. ‘Half-way through, I realised I was carrying my licence. It's got my real name on it too. I can't believe he let us go without asking to see it.' Pulling out the credit-card sized piece of plastic, he dropped it down the drain.

‘But, Scott…' Hilary protested.

Scott jerked his head at the empty street behind them. ‘Want to bet he's checking up on us right now. I'll ditch the bike in the university car park, it should be safe enough there. We were so lucky. I hate to say it but thank God you felt sick. Come on, let's grab you something to drink and phone Travers. His dad must be home by now.'

Keeping his speed low, he set off again picking up a stream of traffic as they joined the main road. ‘Scott?' He felt a tug on his jacket and, indicating, pulled to a halt.

‘What?'

‘Pete would have known about that place so why didn't they move?'

Scott didn't reply, he couldn't. His head was bursting, a swirling mass of confusion, flipping from event to event. Nothing made sense. ‘I don't know,' he groaned. ‘I'm making it up as I go along. But I tell you this…' A little way down the road, he spotted blue signs directing them to the university. He swivelled round, seeing the black and white signs to the industrial site behind him. How ridiculous; they'd spent several hours combing the city looking for the place, and it was ten minutes away. How senseless was that? The way forward had been there in front of them all this time… and he'd ignored it.

‘Scott?'

He jumped. ‘Sorry! Let's get back into town. We'll ditch the bike on the way and walk in.' Swallowing painfully, he revved the engine. Indicating, he pulled out, his mind made up. Strange how everything suddenly had become clear, like the road to the university. They could have saved hours if only they'd made the right choice at the start and begun their search in the local vicinity. However much he wanted and needed her company, he should never have allowed Hilary to come. It was so selfish belly-aching about how bad he felt, he'd never given a moment's thought to the effect Tulsa's death would have on her. All she could see was her own body lying blood-soaked on the ground. Besides, his problems were his and his alone. They always had been. Dad had taught him that. It had been the focus of his childhood learning, to become self-reliant in case the day ever came when it was needed. Dad had taught him to cook and keep house, row, climb, swim and play ball. Behind every lesson was that single-minded aim.

Uninvited, images of a body burned beyond recognition swept through his mind. He blinked them away. Hilary was right. Two kids alone couldn't fight an enemy that was always one step ahead – they
wer
e too powerful.

Powerful enough to control government departments?

Scott's hands on the brake lever tightened and the bike slowed. The thought was horrendous – too horrific to put into words. Before, it had only been a suspicion. Now, it was a certainty. Somewhere, hidden away among the corridors of power was a man that played chess with people's lives, casually destroying any piece that stood in his way. And so colossal was this man's power, no one ever questioned his right to give orders, however wrong or evil they might be. Unnoticing, the roadway slipped past, Scott automatically steering around potholes, slowing for lights and pedestrian crossings. If this were a game of chess he would be a pawn, a solitary little piece of no importance. Except – he grabbed at the thought like a lifeline – even a pawn, if it chose the right move, was capable of changing the course of the game and bringing down the king.

Another thought jabbed at the corners of his mind, one he dreaded bringing to life. Pieces on a chess board could be swept away and the game begun afresh with no lasting damage. In real life, the dead stayed dead.
And they wanted him dead
.

The bike swerved and he felt Hilary tense up. He flexed his fingers tucked inside their handlebar muffs, bought with the money his dad had given him on his sixteenth birthday. He couldn't think like that. There had to be some good, honest people around. Like that policeman. He'd been genuinely concerned about Hilary. If he told him what had happened in Geneva, that people were hell bent on killing him, maybe… just maybe… he'd be believed, especially after the fire today. Okay, so he'd be arrested but at least Hilary would be safe.

The bike swerved and a horn blasted out behind them.

‘Scott, what's up – you're scaring me.'

Scott opened the throttle, his mind made up. ‘We're going back. I'm giving myself up.'

They were running along a dual-carriageway, a busy ring-road that circled the city. In theory, it allowed through traffic to bypass the congestion of the shopping streets. In practice, it made little difference, traffic expanding as fast as throughways were built. Along the centre of the dual-carriageway ran an unbroken concrete strip, tall lampposts like tree trunks sprouting up every fifty metres or so. On the near side, a narrow pavement overlooked council allotments and, beyond them, a forest of roofs, and the reason for the continuous stream of heavy traffic.

Scott scanned the road ahead searching for a possible way off, running the bike through a series of traffic lights with no right-turn. Frustrated, he cautiously edged his way through the long line of cars, slowing to a crawl as traffic ground to a halt. Behind him, horns broke out over the steady rumble of a dozen idling engines.

Noticing a left-hand turn some twenty metres away, Scott stepped the bike around the stationary cars ignoring a battery of angry looks. Lined with terraced houses, a hopscotch pattern in yellow and grey stone accompanied the bike downhill, mirroring the direction of the dual-carriageway; the narrow road made narrower by a line of parked cars. At the bottom of the hill, Scott spotted a T-junction, a couple of vehicles waiting to turn into it, their progress stalled by a procession its participants waving placards and chanting. Impatiently, he crawled to a stop. Anyone stuck behind that was going nowhere fast.

‘At least we know why the traffic,' Hilary said.

She got off the bike rubbing her haunches.

‘Feeling better?'

She gave a nod and taking off her helmet handed it to Scott, fiddling with her hair. Scott smiled. It was odd how a change of clothes and hair colour could affect someone's personality. In Natasha's borrowed jacket and with dark hair, Hilary appeared quite the stranger; even the shape of her face seemed different, more vulnerable somehow, ringed by its halo of dark chestnut hair, the bossy fair-headed agent vanished. Scott glanced down noticing that Tulsa's pistol was no longer tucked into the waistband of her jeans.

‘What did you mean back there about giving-up? You're not serious, are you?'

Scott flipped up the guard on his visor, his smile edgy. ‘It's the only way…'

‘No!
' she flashed back. ‘You can't – not on my account. Park the bike somewhere and we'll get a train to London. The American Embassy – they'll shelter us.'

Scott took her hand in his. It was warm. ‘I want to, Hilary, believe me, I want to. But I'm almost sure it was the embassy that betrayed Dad and me in Geneva.'

Hilary looked shocked, her face under its dark mop drained of colour.

‘
Watch where you're going, you effing twerp
– you nearly ran into us,' a voice bellowed.

Scott glanced back over his shoulder. A group of youths had spilled into the side-road, their placards made from squares of brown cardboard stapled to a wooden pole, thick black marker pen used to write the slogan ‘up with the monarchy.'

A little way away was a minibus, its rear doors open.

‘But I wasn't moving,' he protested.

‘Yes, you was,' a voice shouted back. Scott eyed the gang, searching for its owner. ‘Ran over me toe, ye did.' Even their clothes were designed to intimidate; black jeans with garish T-shirts streaked with artificial blood, skulls and daggers. He caught the glare from a bearded youth at the back of the group. Head and shoulders taller than the rest, he was covered in tattoos like a piece of graffiti on a motorway underpass. ‘'Ere, lads, how about this for a poncy bike? All right for some, innit. Does yer dad know yer out?'

Hilary gripped his arm tightly and snatching her helmet back, climbed up behind him hastily putting it on. ‘Scott, let's go,' she muttered, poking him in the back.

A burst of chanting filled the air.

‘What do we want – Monarchy. When do we want it – now!'

A youth clutching a loud-hailer darted onto the street, pushing his way to the front of a line of students, their arms tightly linked to show solidarity. Much to the amusement of the crowd, he pretended the procession was an orchestra and began conducting them. Wearing an outrageous mohican, dyed every colour of the rainbow, his skin-tight jeans were liberally sprinkled with silver chains above long black boots. He pranced backwards waving both arms in the air, one still clutching the loud-hailer, occasionally interrupting his arm-waving to shout into it. Laughing, the students rose to the challenge, more and more joining in the chant.

‘We students,' he bellowed, ‘are marchin' for the friggin' monarchy. Join us. Make yer voice count. Demand a referendum.
We want it back. When do we want it
?'

‘NOW!' the herd obediently roared and waved their forest of placards.

People on the pavements began to applaud.

Grateful for the diversion, Scott nervously edged the bike round, aiming to step it through the gap between some stationary cars.

‘I said
, ged-off.'
The bearded youth erupted into view elbowing his way to the forefront of the gang surrounding the bike. Up-close, Scott noticed dried flecks of white foam ringing the sides of his mouth. The guy pressed his leg up against the front wheel to stop it moving and raised his banner aggressively, grasping it like a battle-axe. Alarmed, Scott glanced down and saw steel-tipped boots. No way was this a university student, even the wildest didn't go round with steel-rimmed toe-caps on their shoes.

Panicking, he gunned the accelerator hoping the noise would scare him off. A hand grabbed his arm. Scott looked into empty eyes devoid of humanity, nothing he could appeal to. Expressionless, his pupils dilated, the youth stared back. Instinct warned Scott; it wasn't him the guy was seeing, it was something else – something he needed to destroy. Panicking, he pounded at the boy's hand, trying to break his grasp.

‘I said
ged-off
.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the placard aiming for his head. He ducked and it crashed down on his visor, momentarily blinding him. Hands dragged at the handlebars, and the bike tilted alarmingly. Scared, Scott got his feet down bracing them against the ground, the strain on his calves unbearable. Hilary screamed and he sensed her being dragged backwards, a feeling of space and air replacing the warmth of her body. There came a series of thumps and he guessed her place on the pillion seat was being fought over.

Leaping off the bike, he ran over to Hilary. A dark figure was bent over her. Instinctively, his fist flew out striking the guy on the shoulder. Scott felt pain power up his arm and gasped.

‘No need for that, I was only tryin' te help.' Scott recognised the guy with the loud-hailer.

Ignoring him, Scott pulled Hilary onto her feet. ‘You all right?' he said, brushing her down.

‘'Course. But the bike!'

A deluge of scrabbling figures obscured the streamlined silhouette. Helpless, Scott could only watch. The writhing figures reminded him of maggots in a tin of fishing bait, squirming endlessly round and round. No sooner did one gain a perch on the saddle than he was pulled off and left on the ground, another figure using their fists to take his place. The bearded guy sat at the controls laughing like a maniac, the engine thundering out of control and making those in the bike's path skip nervously to one side, for fear of being run over. Behind him a figure crawled his way up onto the saddle. He stood up, his arms outstretched for balance, the guy sat behind grasping his ankles to keep him upright. Two others tagged on behind, using their boots as skateboards. Screaming like a banshee, the guy at the helm manoeuvred the machine round the parked cars, their occupants staring out with glassy, frightened eyes, their fingers firmly pressed on the door-lock.

Hilary tugged on his arm. ‘Scott – let's get out of here.'

He pulled himself free. ‘No, it's Dad's bike. I have to get it back. He'll kill me if anything happens to it.'

‘Scott! No!'

By now, the march had come to a halt and a wide gap had opened round the rioters, still scuffling among themselves for possession of the bike. Scott dived into the crowd, fights breaking out left and right. ‘Let it go,' he yelled trying to keep pace with its rolling wheels. Next moment, something heavy hit him across the back of the head and he toppled headlong into a solid wall of milling shapes. He felt boots trampling him down into the concrete. Dazed, he fought his way back onto his knees, unable to see the bike anywhere. In the distance, police sirens sounded, growing louder.

Hilary grabbed his arm, pulling him up onto his feet. ‘Scott, we have to get out of here,' she screamed, trying to make herself heard above the racket, ‘the police are coming.' She swung her helmet at a youth armed with a knife and it clattered to the ground. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Scott shrugged her away and plunged back into the sea of squabbling figures, ducking the blows headed in his direction.

The sirens stopped abruptly, the noise from the fighting once again taking over. Whistles sounded. Suddenly, as if a starter's gun had sounded, an avalanche of fleeing figures fought their way through the crowd leaving the red bike alone on the ground, its wheels still spinning. Then Scott saw what the crowd had already seen – smoke spiralling into the air.

‘Run!'

A huge explosion knocked him to the ground. For a moment he felt nothing – then he did, his hip and knee screaming in pain at the force with which he'd been hurled onto the roadway. Dazed, he looked up to see the air saturated with acrid black smoke, flying debris still tumbling to the ground.

‘Right, you're nicked.'

He was yanked roughly to his feet. Scott recognised the black stab vest. ‘But I haven't done anything,' he protested. ‘Hilary?'

‘If that's your girl-friend, I reckon she's nicked too.' The officer dragged him into the little side-road, the crowd of onlookers pushing back to let them pass. Over their heads Scott saw a police-van and an ambulance. In the distance another siren sounded purposefully. A second van swung off the dual-carriageway at the top of the hill, driving at speed along the narrow road, its siren blasting out.

‘Bloody yobs and your petrol bombs.'

‘But I…'

‘Shut-it! You'll get your chance at the station. If it was up to me… Bloody good hiding is what you lot need.'

In the middle of the street lay a pile of smoking metal where the bike had been, nothing remaining of the elegant scarlet machine. ‘But I wasn't even riding it,' he protested.

‘Pull the other one. Next, you're going to tell me you wear your helmet and biker's gear to yer ballet class.' Scott didn't bother to reply; the insult had been intentional, a sneer uppermost in the officer's voice.

‘I say, mate…'

The driver of the ambulance looked up as Scott was dragged past the open doors of the police van. Briefly he glanced inside, waves of dizziness sweeping over him with the movement. It was full – two officers busily taking names. Relieved he spotted Hilary hunched up in the far corner, her hands over her ears as if trying to block out sound. He guessed, like him, her ears were still ringing from the blast. But at least she was all right – and safe. It didn't matter what happened to him as long as she was okay.

‘This chap's had a bad crack on the head. Check him out; then stick him in with the others. But keep his helmet – I need it for evidence.'

The paramedic was a middle-aged man, mostly bald, a narrow fringe of hair circling the back of his head where the rim of his cap perched, his demeanour open and cheerful. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,' he said as Scott fumbled with the strap on his visor and tried to pull it off.

‘What's going to happen to me?' He nodded gratefully feeling the pressure on his head lessen as the medic slowly eased his helmet off. He gasped in horror. One side was almost completely crushed.

He flinched away, feeling fingers prodding his scalp.

‘It wasn't half your lucky day. If you hadn't been wearing that helmet – and I don't care what the reason was – most probably you'd be lying here with a fractured skull instead of nursing a bad headache. I think you're okay but, to be on the safe side, I'll get a doctor to check you out.'

‘Thanks but I'm okay, honest.'

‘In a hurry to get arrested, are you?'

‘My girlfriend's in there.' Scott said, watching the doors to the police-van slam shut. He heard its engine start up. ‘Where are they taking them?'

‘Central station to be booked in, followed by a few hours in the cells to cool off, then an appearance in front of a magistrate. Most likely that will be arranged for later in the day. Disorderly conduct carries a mandatory sentence – a minimum seven days in a youth centre.' Scott swayed, still unsteady on his feet. ‘Here, lad, sit down, you look all in.'

Scott collapsed down on to the side of a stretcher, his legs giving way. ‘What about a solicitor?'

‘Never been arrested before?' The middle-aged man smiled kind-heartedly.

‘No!'

‘It's just like speeding. There, you attend a course on safe-driving for a few hours, pay your fine and
Bob's your uncle,
you don't even get points on your licence. Same thing with misdemeanours – like drunk and disorderly. Magistrate decides if you're guilty; you do your seven days. It's like community service, except you get board and lodging. You're given the chance to pay back by cleaning streets and drains. Then you're home free, not a stain on your character.'

‘But why – what if you're innocent?'

‘It saves on money and time, lad. The Union doesn't want courts cluttered up with solicitors, only there to make money.
Great!
' He raised his arm in a salute. ‘You're in luck.'

A small white car squealed to a halt, the words
Doctor on call
printed on the side. A young man flew out carrying a brief case.