Mad About the Boy? (30 page)

Haldean thought rapidly. It was a real squeeze to get past the elderberry sapling at the front of the cave. They were bound to make some noise and for a few vital minutes they would be helpless as they tried to get out. So that way was blocked . . .

The rear of the cave was a mass of tree roots snaking through the crumbly earth. Stanton had already made a rough hole in the roof to act as a chimney. If the hole could be widened, they might be able to escape that way. The highest part of the roof was a few feet above their heads. If only his damned arm was sound, it would be possible to climb out.

He took his knife out of his pocket and gave it to Stanton, pointing at the hole in the roof. ‘Can you make that bigger?' he said softly. He crouched down. ‘You can stand on my shoulders.'

Stanton unclasped the knife and, holding on to a tree root for support, climbed on to Haldean's back.

Haldean's eyes widened as he took the strain and he very nearly cried out from the wrenching pain in his arm. After what seemed an unendurable time, Stanton quietly slipped to the ground again. Haldean, doubled up and clutching his arm, felt his stomach heave. He couldn't, absolutely couldn't, be sick. He felt Stanton's supportive hand on his shoulder as he battled against it. Eventually he was able to look up. ‘I'm okay,' he said quietly. He saw the contradiction in Stanton's face. Even in those circumstances, it made him smile.

Stanton pointed upwards. The hole was wide enough for them to get through.

‘You first,' said Haldean quietly, stooping down once more. He clenched his fists as Stanton's foot ground into his shoulder. There were a few brief moments of agony, then the pressure had gone. Stanton, with his elbows on the outside of the hole, quickly pulled himself through. Then, kneeling on the ground, he reached his arms down for Haldean.

Haldean thought he was going to faint. As Stanton pulled him up, his vision blurred into jagged white lines. He heard Stanton grunt, as if from far away, then – thank God! – he was lying face down and full length on the ground amongst the heaps of fallen leaves, trying to control his ragged breathing.

Stanton put his mouth close to Haldean's ear. ‘I can still see the Russian,' he said. ‘Wait here. Get your breath back. I'm going to scout round to see where the others are.'

If Lenin himself had been after him, there wasn't the slightest chance Haldean could have moved at that moment. He gave a feeble thumbs-up sign, and heard Stanton steal away. Gradually, his breathing steadied and he was able to open his eyes. Very cautiously, he rolled over and got to his knees.

He was on the edge of a chalky cliff, deep with fallen leaves, which rose about fifteen feet above the woods. Crouching behind a tree-trunk he could see the Russian – or most of the Russian, because the trees were in the way – standing on the overgrown path.

Then, from out of the trees on the slope behind him, came the sound of feet. Haldean got up and slipped behind the tree. A small, red-headed man, carrying an automatic pistol, came to the edge of the cliff. ‘Boris!' he called in a low, carrying voice. ‘Have you seen anything?'

Boris came into full view. ‘No,' he said, then stared straight past the man. ‘Look!' he shouted, pointing at Haldean. ‘Behind you!'

The red-headed man whirled, gun at the ready. Haldean shot out from behind the tree and ran for it, away from the cliff edge and up the slope into the woods. He heard the shots crack past him and saw the bark of a tree explode into splinters.

‘Mick! Get him!' called the man from behind him. Haldean glanced ahead and saw a big, black-jacketed man step into his path. The man raised his gun to fire and then Stanton jumped down from the woods behind. He had a branch in his hands and brought it down in a whirling blow.

Mick collapsed at Stanton's feet.

Stanton jerked his thumb towards Haldean. ‘This way!' They ran up the slope again. Behind them they could hear the red-headed man calling for Boris. Stanton took them up through the woods then back down to the cliff edge. ‘There's a way out,' he gasped as Haldean caught up with him. ‘Follow me.'

As they got back on to the edge, a bullet sang past them. The red-headed man was pounding towards them, firing as he ran. Stanton and Haldean raced along the cliff edge. They'd doubled back on their tracks and were near the cave once more. Stanton skirted round it, but Haldean jumped over the hole. Behind them the thudding feet were getting closer, then came a shriek and an agonized yell.

Haldean glanced round and grinned in triumph. The red-haired man had disappeared down the ready-made man trap of the chimney to the cave. He had hoped that would happen and it had.

However, Boris was still in the woods below and, presumably, another man too. They needed to get off the cliff, through the woods and back to the Spyker. Stanton pointed in front of them. ‘There are some old steps a little further on that'll bring us to the path. Is the car at the gate?'

Haldean nodded. ‘If they've got any sense, they'll have left a man on guard beside it.'

Stanton bit his lip. ‘What do we do about that?'

‘Let's see how the land lies first,' said Haldean.

They got down the steps and, keeping to the trees and paralleling the path, crept down to the gate. Boris was, presumably, still in the woods behind them.

Haldean slipped out of the gate and into the ditch by the side of the road, Stanton at his heels. Very cautiously they risked a glance over the edge of the ditch.

About twenty yards down the road stood the Spyker. The maroon bulk of a Wolseley was drawn in behind it. A bearded man was sitting on the bonnet of the Wolseley, his feet resting on the suspension.

‘He must have heard the din in the woods,' said Stanton quietly, on his knees in the ditch.

‘He'll have been ordered to stay put,' said Haldean. ‘Damn!'

He'd hoped, of course, that the car would be unguarded. They'd just have to think of a way to draw him off. Quickly, too, before the enemy could gather their forces. He smiled slowly as an idea occurred to him. ‘Arthur,' he whispered. ‘This is what we'll do . . .'

A few minutes later, Haldean was lying in the ditch with the Spyker on the road above him. He had crept that far without being seen. He could hear the guard on the Wolseley shifting his position. He unknotted his tie and took it off, holding it in his hand. That was part of the plan. Now for Arthur to do his thing. Up the road any minute now . . . He heard the man's startled exclamation and a thump as he slid off the bonnet of the car. Looking under the wheels of the Spyker, he could see the man's feet. Haldean knew what had happened: Arthur, about fifty yards away, had run across the road. Shouting, the man raced after him.

Haldean got out of the ditch and ran to the back of the Wolseley. He wanted to make sure that they couldn't be followed. He unscrewed the lid to the petrol tank and stuffed his tie inside, so that it was saturated with petrol. Taking one end out, he trailed it behind the car, leaving the other end in the tank. Quite a lot of petrol spilled on to the road. Good.

Now for the awkward bit. He ran to the Spyker, climbed in and started the engine. On the road ahead, the Russian spun round. He raised his gun and started to shoot. Haldean, crouching low in the seat, drove the car on to the road and slammed it into reverse. When he was level with the petrol tank of the Wolseley, he struck a match and threw it at the end of the tie that was on the road. The match didn't quite land on the tie, but the petrol on the road burst into flame with a whumph.

Without waiting to see what happened, Haldean gunned the Spyker forwards. A massive explosion rocked the car and a cloud of acrid, oily smoke engulfed him. Completely blinded, Haldean kept his foot hard down. Emerging from the smoke, he caught a brief glimpse of the bearded man, standing open-mouthed on the road. The man leapt to one side as the Spyker surged past, his gun forgotten.

Haldean crunched on the brakes as he got to the oak tree which he and Stanton had picked out as a landmark. Stanton hurled himself into the car and they were away. Behind them came the wild crackle of fire and a sound like falling rain as the debris from the Wolseley hit the road. Turning his head, Stanton saw a huge black cloud billowing up from where the Wolseley had been. Choking with exhilaration and laughter, he yelled at Haldean, making his voice carry over the noise. ‘You've got to see this.'

Haldean drove another quarter mile before stopping the car. He got out and looked at the black cloud behind them with enormous satisfaction. ‘It'll be a long time before they drive anywhere in that.'

Stanton shook his head, still laughing. ‘By jingo, that did me good. I wonder what The Boss will say?'

Haldean grinned. ‘Let's see. There's a red-headed chap with a broken leg, Mick with a broken head – that was a very well-timed thump with the branch you gave him, Arthur Boris is undented, worse luck, but if our friend who was guarding the car doesn't get hit by flying debris, then there's no justice in this life.' He rubbed his hands together. ‘And, to top it all, the Wolseley is in so many bits that it could go through a sieve. I don't think The Boss will be any too cheerful. That'll teach them to come after me with a machine gun, to say nothing of making my friends' lives a total misery.' He reached out his hand to the grinning Stanton beside him. ‘Job done?'

Stanton shook his hand. ‘Absolutely, job done.'

Haldean walked round to the passenger side of the car. ‘You'll have to drive, Arthur. I'm really not up to it.' He glanced at his watch. ‘Do you know, it's only just gone five o'clock. Can you stop at a telephone box when you see one? I need to speak to Ashley as soon as possible. If he can get some men over here they might be able to pick up the remnants of that bunch of jokers. I want to tell Isabelle we're on our way, too.'

‘Right you are,' said Stanton, climbing into the driver's side of the car. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Stanmore Parry police station.'

‘Oh,' said Stanton, sobered. ‘Stanmore Parry police station it is.'

Haldean made two phone calls, one to Ashley and one to Isabelle. ‘I told Isabelle we were on our way,' he said as he got back into the car. ‘I've asked her to meet us at the police station with your shaving things and a change of clothes. Once inside the station you'll be safe. In the circumstances, I didn't think we could go up to the house. No one apart from those two knows you're coming.' He glanced covertly at Stanton as they drove off. ‘Isabelle sounded jolly pleased to hear you were all right.'

Jolly pleased
was the dickens of an understatement. Isabelle had been unable to speak for a few moments and, when she did, she'd left Haldean in no doubt about the welcome Stanton would receive. He mentally shrugged. All he asked of Isabelle was that she wouldn't start the whole sorry business once more of raising Arthur's hopes, then dropping him. Not only did he have more than enough to deal with, but the one good thing about his loss of memory was that it seemed to have taken away the deep unhappiness which Isabelle had caused.

‘Isabelle,' said Stanton softly. ‘I remember meeting her for the first time.' He smiled. ‘Other odd bits keep coming back to me. She was wonderful. You introduced us, didn't you?' He broke off. ‘Anyway, that's all over now. She must be worried sick about her fiancé.' He glanced across to his friend. ‘Jack, it will be all right, won't it?'

‘I hope so,' said Haldean, suddenly unsure. ‘But there are some bits that still don't fit, Arthur. I just hope it all comes together.'

As he nosed the car through the narrow streets of Stanmore Parry, Stanton felt his spirits sink lower and lower. He must have been insane to return. Prison. Although Jack had avoided the word, a police cell was still prison. But what else could he do? He hated hiding. He couldn't hide any longer. He'd almost rather be hanged and get it over with. He wanted to talk to Jack, but Jack had been asleep for the last few miles and Stanton, glancing at his friend's tired face, didn't have the heart to waken him. He parked the car a little way from the police station and waited for a moment before climbing out. Part of him was screaming
Run!
but he resolutely nerved himself to approach the station steps.

A girl was standing in the entrance to the narrow alleyway beside the police station. ‘Arthur?' she said. ‘Arthur?'

It was Isabelle. At the sight of her face and sound of her voice, his heart turned over. Memories flooded back, bringing stabbing unhappiness and a deep longing. But she wasn't his; she never had been his. He swallowed. It was decent of her to come and help him. He could be grateful for that, at least, and the poor girl must be beside herself at the thought of Smith-Fennimore in the hands of those damn Russians. He squared his shoulders and faced her. As she saw him properly, unshaven and dirty, she started back, alarmed. ‘It's all right,' he said gently. ‘Isabelle, it's only me. I'm sorry if I look a bit the worse for wear.'

She drew him up the alleyway a little way. ‘Please, Arthur, come here. I want to talk to you without everybody looking at us.' Her voice broke and she flung herself forward and put her head on his chest. ‘Arthur, I've been so worried. It's been dreadful.'

He put an arm round her awkwardly and lifted her chin up. ‘It'll be fine, Isabelle, really. We'll get him back for you, don't you worry.'

She drew back, puzzled. ‘Who?'

‘Smith-Fennimore.'

‘Malcolm?'

‘Yes,' he said, dropping his arm and stepping back. ‘I know you're engaged. You must be worried about him.'

She gave a hiccup of laughter. ‘I am. Of course I am, but you're here.' She broke off, reached up and kissed the angle of his jaw.

Stanton drew back as if he'd been stung, his hand to his face. ‘Isabelle, don't do that. It's not . . .' He searched for the right words. ‘It's not kind.'