Silver Fin Page 25

  ‘Stop it,’ said Kelly. ‘I was beginning to enjoy myself there for a moment.’

  So far, there was no sign of anyone else. The lorry trundled along noisily, and with each mile they travelled they were closer to home. James should have been feeling happier, but he knew that he wouldn’t properly feel safe until he was back in his bed at Max’s cottage and Hellebore was locked up.

  They passed two white-walled thatched houses, but no one was up and about; then the road pulled round in a wide sweep and climbed the side of a fair-sized hill. When they reached the top, they saw that they had a clear view in both directions, so James stopped the lorry, opened the door, and jumped down to take a look.

  It was a cold morning and had started to drizzle. The sky was an unbroken slate-grey and a miserable wind moaned across the lonely moors.

  James shivered as his damp clothes stuck to him.

  ‘Here.’ Kelly passed him the binoculars and he focused them on the distant, dark smudge of the castle buildings.

  ‘Blast,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ Kelly asked anxiously.

  Driving along the road at great speed was the big Rolls-Royce that James had seen pick George up from the station in Fort William, and behind it were two other cars.

  ‘They’re after us,’ said James.

  ‘How far away?’

  ‘Quite a distance at the moment. They’re only just leaving the castle, but they can go a lot quicker than we can.’

  ‘Can we make it, d’you think?’ said Kelly, straining to look back.

  ‘We’ve got a chance, but it’ll be close.’

  ‘You still worried about the coppers?’

  ‘Not much. Better a few days in a police cell than eternity at the bottom of a lake.’

  James swung round and scanned the road ahead, following its winding path across the moors. He lost sight of it now and then behind a hill or clump of trees, but he always picked it up again without any trouble. It was clear for a few miles, but then his heart sank as he saw a cloud of spray and exhaust fumes thrown up by a lorry, identical to those in the compound, racing along towards the castle.

  ‘We’re in big trouble,’ he said. ‘They’re coming at us from both directions.’

  Kelly swore and hammered the lorry’s interior with his fists.

  ‘We’ll find somewhere to ditch the Albion,’ said James, clambering back into the cab. ‘Then I’ll have to risk it on foot. I’m a pretty good long-distance runner, and the ground here’s too boggy for them to follow in the vehicles.’

  ‘What about me?’ said Kelly. ‘I can’t hardly walk.’

  ‘They don’t know about you, they’ll only be looking for me.’ James wrestled the gear lever into first and set the lorry rolling forward. ‘You’ll have to find somewhere to hide. Then, when they’ve gone, try and make it back to Keithly somehow. Even if it means hopping all the way. But go to my uncle’s house, not the police. OK?’

  ‘Where’m I gonna hide?’

  ‘I spotted a bit of a wood in the valley up ahead, and some farm buildings. We’ll try there.’

  In a couple of minutes they were down the other side of the hill and crossing a narrow stone bridge over the Black River. A small crofter’s farm, surrounded by trees, nestled in the secluded nook. James stopped the lorry in the middle of the road, cut the engine and helped Kelly down. Sheltered from the bitter wind, it was very quiet and peaceful here. The water babbled happily under the bridge, birds were singing in the trees, and for a moment the two boys could forget all about the rest of the world.

  But only for a moment.

  They searched the buildings until they found a small, dilapidated barn, half full of straw.

  ‘Under there,’ said James, and as soon as Kelly lay down he piled straw on top of him until he was completely buried.

  As James hurried back outside, he ran straight into a short, wiry crofter with a huge, grey beard and fierce, red-rimmed eyes.

  ‘Whit d’ye think ye’re doin’?’ he said in a hard, thin, high-pitched voice.

  ‘Sorry. I’m lost,’ said James, and the ancient crofter peered at him quizzically.

  ‘Whit’s yon stinkin’ great lorry doing in ma road?’

  ‘It’s yours if you want it,’ said James, walking away.

  ‘And whit would ah want with a durty old lorry?’ The crofter made a move to follow James, who turned and bolted, leaping over a wooden fence, down the riverbank and away through the trees, the angry little man scampering after him, yelling insults. James was reminded of something, and as he blundered through a vegetable patch he realised what it was: Mr MacGregor in the books about Peter Rabbit.

  He grinned as he splashed across the stream and set off into open country.

  Peter Rabbit.

  That was from a different world. A world of safe childhood nurseries and bedtime stories about rabbits that wore little blue coats. That wasn’t the world he was living in right now.

  James felt weirdly light-headed. He wondered if he had the strength to cope; but the human body is an amazing thing, it can surprise you with its resilience – especially a human body that has been tampered with. Instead of feeling tired, James was filled with a fluttering, pulsing, wild sort of energy. He was a superman, capable of anything. He could run forever if needs be. It felt effortless.

  It was a shame that he had bumped into that crofter, as he would be bound to point Lord Hellebore after him, but he had a good head start and was an experienced cross-country runner, so at least he had a small advantage.

  He was heading into Am Boglach Dubh, the Black Mire. The ground here was very waterlogged and made for slow going, but it would be the same for Hellebore and his men, and they would definitely have to follow him on foot rather than in their cars. Also, James was lighter, so he didn’t sink as far into the boggy ground as the men would.

  But they were men. He was just a boy. He was kidding himself if he thought he could outrun them forever and it was a good five miles to Keithly.

  It was raining harder now, so any drying out his clothes might have done in the lorry was thoroughly reversed. A million cold needles were pricking at his skin and his boots chafed against his ankles. They felt horribly heavy and were clogging up with mud. After a while he stopped, took them off and slung them away. It was easier to continue barefoot.

  None of this country was familiar to him; the path to the castle on foot from Keithly came a very different and more direct route. He could make out the hills around the Hellebore estate, way off to his right, and above them the watching face of Angreach Mhòr, which meant that Keithly must be to his left. The route was generally downhill from here, which would help, but it was still going to be hard work.

  He looked behind him. A dirty cloud told him that the lorry coming from Keithly was approaching the woods by the croft, but he had no idea whether the party from the castle had arrived there yet. He didn’t wait to find out, but turned and sprinted away across the grass, scattering a small group of scrawny sheep.

  As he ran, his head cleared, all useless thoughts fell away and he could concentrate properly on what was important.

  First of all, what would be going through Randolph Hellebore’s mind right now?

  He would link up with the men in the other lorry. He would talk to them. He would talk to the crofter. And then he would set off after James with most of his men.

  Yes.

  Given time, they could catch up with him, but there was a fair chance that he could outrun them at least as far as the village.

  But Randolph wouldn’t send all his men across the moors on foot, would he? No. He would send some on ahead in the vehicles to Keithly, and a second search party would set out from there.

  James stopped dead in his tracks.

  What a fool he was! He was in exactly the same position as he had been on the road: trapped between two gangs of men. Hellebore knew his name. They would easily find his uncle’s house. They could be waiting for him there as well.

&
nbsp; What was he going to do? For a start, he mustn’t just stand here and wait for Hellebore to come and get him. He had to keep moving and he had to keep thinking.

  OK. So he couldn’t go back to Keithly. What else could he do? Where else could he go?

  Where wouldn’t they expect him to go?

  The moon?

  Timbuktu?

  The castle…

  That would be the last place on earth they’d look for him. But why on earth would he go back there? What would that achieve?

  It was then that James realised that an urgent thought had been nagging away at the back of his mind, and now it barged forward and yelled at him, obscuring all other thoughts.

  Hellebore must be stopped.

  It was as simple as that.

  What he was doing was wrong. It was evil. But Hellebore had money and power and authority. James, as he had pointed out to Kelly, was just a boy. A boy who was also a vandal and a thief. Going to the police would achieve nothing – Hellebore would carry on as normal, James would be punished – but what if he destroyed Hellebore’s work? What if he stopped him from ever finishing his research? Was he capable of that?

  Without realizing it, James had changed direction. His feet had already made the decision that his mind was stumbling towards. He was going to go back to the castle, and somehow or other he was going to ruin Hellebore forever, no matter what the consequences. Most of the men would be out looking for him, or repairing the damaged vehicles and gates. If James could get back in and somehow destroy the laboratory and all it contained, then nothing else would matter.

  He was running uphill now, towards Loch Silverfin, and it was a much harder route than his original downhill path, but he was filled with a grim determination. He wasn’t human. He was a machine. He would carry on. He would finish this. Nobody would stop him.

  The wind shifted direction and he heard shouts behind him.

  Best not to think about that, best just to keep running.

  The rain hammered against his forehead, stinging his face and blinding him; thorns and sharp stones cut his feet. There was a constant pain in his lungs and he was beginning to cough regularly, but still he forced himself on.

  The minutes passed. He kept his head down, watching the ground slip past beneath his feet, feeling his breath grate agonisingly out of his throat almost as if it were solid. His head felt disembodied, floating along, five feet above the ground. There was no feeling in his limbs. He was only dimly aware of them working away beneath him, but they belonged to somebody else. The ground was stonier here and he had to avoid rocks and gorse bushes, which meant zigzagging all over the place and travelling twice as far than if he’d been able to go in a straight line. Once he came to a large outcrop of rock and had to skirt all the way round it, but still he hammered on as the rain hissed down relentlessly.

  Some time later, it struck him that he hadn’t heard anything for some while and he allowed himself the luxury of thinking that he had lost his pursuers. He turned to take a look and in that split second stumbled and fell, face first, into a bed of moss.

  It was then that his tiredness overwhelmed him, and he was buried beneath a great avalanche of exhaustion. Spots danced before his eyes. A black glove took hold of him and squeezed gently. Ever so gently. It was warm and comforting. He closed his eyes and in a moment was asleep.

  It felt as if it had been only for a second, and he woke with a jolt of panic. He rubbed his temples, got shakily to his feet and staggered a few steps, before leaning against a rock to get his balance. Every breath was a struggle now and his heart felt as if it were working so hard, it might burst out of his chest like a bloody fist.

  ‘There he is!’

  James spun round and saw, less than a quarter of a mile away, down the hill, about ten men with dogs, and, at their head, his golden hair flapping in the wind, the unmistakable figure of Lord Hellebore, a riding crop in his hand.

  26

  Go to Hell

  He must have slept for longer than he’d thought. How else could they have got so close? How could he have been so bloody careless? He had done exactly what he had told Kelly not to do – he had got cocky.

  But James wasn’t done for yet, he could still run. He urged his body back into action and trudged heavily up the hill, away from the men. After a short, grinding climb, the ground levelled out and he speeded up. The relief was only temporary, however, because he knew that his pursuers would also be able to speed up when they got this far.

  Odd sounds drifted to him on the air. The harsh rattling croak of a ptarmigan launching into flight, stones bouncing over rocks, rain sleeting on to wet ground, a solitary shout, then, nearer to hand, his feet pounding the earth, his breath rasping out of his throat, and the sound of his blood thundering in his ears like crazy drumming.

  After a long, level stretch, the ground climbed sharply again up to a rocky ridge. James came to the top of it and saw a nasty drop on the other side into a foul-smelling bog. He ran along the crest of the ridge, the stones cutting into his bare feet, and felt stupid that he had thrown away his boots, but he had been expecting to be running downhill, where the land was lush and grassy, and not up here, where it was more barren.

  He glanced back at the men. They were strung out now, finding it difficult to keep up, but striding ahead of them was Lord Hellebore, his powerful arms pumping at his sides, his big white teeth bared. Hellebore was an athlete and James knew that he was doomed. The man was closing the gap with every moment.

  James slowed down and picked up two sharp stones, then carried on running as fast as he could, but it wasn’t fast enough. With every second, with every step, Lord Hellebore was drawing nearer. James heard his footsteps horribly close behind him and turned to let fly with one of the stones. Randolph ducked to one side and it bounced harmlessly away across the rocks. James threw the other stone, but it too went wide. He had no choice now. Randolph had nearly caught up with him, he would have to risk the bog. He found a suitable spot where the ground didn’t look too steep, went over the edge and started to make his way down the almost sheer slope on the other side. He slipped on the loose stones, picked himself up – and then the sun was blotted out as, with a ferocious yell, Randolph was upon him. The big man barged into him and the two of them lost their footing and went tumbling down together into the bog.

  The bog was only a couple of feet deep, but when James stood up, spluttering and choking, he could barely move his feet in the thick mud at the bottom. He tried to run, forcing his way in desperate slow motion, and Hellebore followed, churning up the stinking water. For a few seconds James thought he might just get away, but then he felt the heat coming off Randolph and the cloying, animal reek of him, and a hand grabbed his face from behind and pulled him back under the surface of the bog.

  James came up again, blinded by the yellow, peaty water. He wiped his face and opened his stinging eyes, to see Hellebore standing over him with the riding crop raised in his hand. Before James could do anything, the man swung at him, cutting a deep gash into his cheek. James grunted and put a hand up to the wound. It came away bloody.

  ‘Damn you, boy!’ bellowed the lord. ‘Damn you to hell. You have caused me a great deal of trouble, and before I kill you I’m going to thrash every scrap of skin off your body.’

  James spat at him and got him right in the eye. Randolph cursed and brushed it away. ‘You should not have done that,’ he raged. ‘It will only make things worse.’

  James spat again, hitting him in the exact same spot, and he saw such a look of fury erupt in the lord’s eyes, it was as if his very brain had become molten. He roared like a beast and raised the crop again.

  James had been very aware of the thundering in his ears and he shook his head to clear it, but the sound only got louder. He tried to concentrate, to be ready for the next attack, and, as Randolph swung the crop at him, James just managed to throw himself out of the way. Once more he plunged under the water, but when he fought his way up out of the bog
, his mouth full of mud, he was amazed to see a horse splashing towards him. Randolph saw it as well – too late. He screamed as the horse reared up and knocked him sideways with its front hooves.

  James recognised that horse, it was Martini, and he recognised the blonde girl riding him.

  ‘Get on!’ Wilder Lawless shouted, and she held out a hand towards James, who grabbed hold of it eagerly. Wilder pulled him up into the saddle behind her, and the black horse thrashed away through the water.

  James smiled – that’s what the sound of thunder had been. It wasn’t in his head at all, it was Martini’s hooves.

  They pulled up safely on to dry land the other side and galloped away across the grass, leaving Lord Hellebore behind, floundering and cursing in the bog. Of the other men there was no sign.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ yelled James.

  Wilder laughed. ‘You can thank your friend, Red Kelly.’

  ‘You’ve seen Red?’

  ‘Aye. I was exercising Martini before breakfast, and who should pop out of the trees, leaning on a stick like an old hobgoblin, but your Mister Kelly.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘About a mile out of Keithly. It seems he’d sneaked into the back of one of the laird’s lorries and stolen a ride into town, but he had to jump ship before he quite got there.’

  ‘But he’s all right, though? I felt bad about leaving him behind.’

  ‘Aye, he’s fine, apart from his ankle. You need to worry more about yourself, James. You look like a dirty rag that’s been through the wringer.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ James lied, clinging tightly to Wilder, his arms round her waist. He felt like burying his face in her hair and falling asleep.

  ‘You’re way off course, James,’ Wilder shouted. ‘It took me ages to find you up here. The sooner we get you back to Keithly, the better.’

  ‘We can’t go into Keithly,’ said James.

  ‘What?’ Wilder pulled up the horse and twisted round in the saddle to look James in the face.