The Secret Prophecy (9 page)

But by then Em was disappearing down the side street on his way to freedom.

Chapter 18

E
m blew the whole day in a mixture of worry and fear. How had they found him? No one knew he was staying in the shelter. He’d only decided to go there when he found himself standing outside it . . . and even that had been an accident. He’d lied to Jeff about who he was and told no one else. He should have been absolutely safe, absolutely anonymous, yet the man who’d followed him to France had found him in a single night and turned up with his friends to get him first thing in the morning. Who the hell were they? Until he figured that out and how they’d found him, there was every chance they would find him again. Not to mention the fact that the
real
Social Services must still be after him. His life was turning into a chase movie.

He slid into a coffee shop and bought coffee and a ham roll to go, then caught a bus to carry him out of the district. He disembarked at random and headed into a nearby park, trying desperately to shake off the sensation of invisible pursuers.

Eventually, late in the afternoon, he walked out of town altogether and climbed a grassy hillside to a spot where he could see anyone approaching half a mile away. He knew it was an overreaction, but he felt safer here, more able to think.

He tried a trick his father had taught him: laying out his problems in his mind one by one in the hope he might get some idea what to do next. The overall sequence was simple enough. Someone had killed his father. There had been strangers at the funeral, one in a car with diplomatic plates, one who carried a handgun. Someone had rifled his father’s study. The man with the handgun had followed Em to France. While Em was away, someone had persuaded two doctors to commit his mother to a mental clinic, and someone had rifled their entire home. This was obviously tied up with the fact that he was being followed, but where was the pattern that made sense of it all?

It had started to rain again by the time he got back into town. Not the downpour of the night before, but a steady drizzle that somehow managed to be just as wetting. It focused his mind on where he was going to spend the night.

There was no question of returning to the Salvation Army shelter. Or any other local shelter, come to that. If he wanted to sleep in a warm bed tonight, he needed to leave town and find a shelter somewhere he wasn’t known, somewhere that had too many shelters for his pursuers to check them all. London was the obvious choice.

Em hesitated. He thought he probably had enough money to cover his fare to London; but once he paid it, he’d have very little cash left over. In fact, now that he came to think of it, what with wandering and worrying, he’d forgotten to change his euros in a bank that day, so he might not have enough for the fare after all. More to the point, just staying free was hardly enough. He had to find out what was going on, and he wasn’t going to do that in London. In fact, traveling to London just to get shelter had to be really stupid since he’d just have to travel back again, and he wasn’t sure he had the funds for that. He pulled out his phone and dialed Charlotte’s number.

By the time he reached the central depot, the last bus was gone (at 11 p.m., according to the timetable posted outside). But by now he’d more or less decided against London anyway. There was no sign of Charlotte yet; and after ten minutes waiting in the shadow of an archway, he was beginning to wonder if she was coming at all. Then a taxi drew up and she stepped out of it.

“Over here!” Em whispered urgently as she stood frowning at the closed gates of the station.

“Are you all right?” Charlotte asked anxiously as she joined him in the archway. “You sounded weird on the phone.”

“I’m fine. Did you bring the money?”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes.”

“How much could you get?”

“A hundred pounds.”

Em almost choked. He needed money badly, but this was way more than he’d expected from her. “A hundred pounds?!”

“It’s all I had,” she snapped angrily, obviously mistaking his tone. Her own tone softened into an anxious “You will give it back when all this is over? I’m saving for an iPad.”

“Every penny. I promise.” He impulsively kissed her on the cheek, and she blushed.

After she’d gone, he walked around the corner to the train station, which was still ablaze with light although not exactly packed with people, and discovered his luck had changed. There were several late-night shops still open, plus an all-night fast-food bar. To his delight, one of the shops was Camping World; and a huge sign in the window was advertising a sale.

He spent £9.99 on the cheapest sleeping bag in the store:
SALE
,
screamed the sign,
LESS THAN HALF PRICE FOR THIS ITEM
.
He had money now, thanks to Charlotte, but he still had to watch his spending or the extra hundred wouldn’t last very long. He went around to the fast-food bar and spent fifty pence to buy a bag of chips, which he ate on a bench on one of the platforms. He dropped the greasy bag into a litter bin, then headed down a broad flight of steps to the underground passageways.

There were seven passages in all, each one leading to a different platform. Four of them were fully lit to show their platforms were still operational. In the remaining three, the lights were dimmed: the platforms they led to were closed for the night. Em picked one of the dimmed passageways at random.

He walked until he was out of sight of the entrance, then unfolded his new sleeping bag and began to climb inside it. He wasn’t the only one sleeping here. He’d already passed a large cardboard carton with a huddled shape inside, and a little farther on from him there was a sleeping figure under a tattered blanket. Em settled himself against a wall, cradled his head in his arm, and closed his eyes.

The passageway was a good choice. It was dry and reasonably warm despite a constant draft. There would be no one wandering past to disturb him before the platform reopened in the morning. It was possible, he supposed, that some railway official might turn up to move him on, but he doubted it.

But sleep didn’t come easily, even though he was tired out from his day of walking. He kept thinking he’d wasted a day, a day he could ill afford to waste, when he should be making plans. He’d started out with the bold idea of discovering the truth about his father’s death, finding out who caused it and all the other hassles. But since then all he’d really done was run. Worse, he still couldn’t think what else to do.

Everywhere he might think of going would certainly be thought of by the people after him, so it was really only a matter of luck whether he’d be undisturbed wherever he picked. The yawn stretched his jaw without warning, all his niggling thoughts turned fuzzy, and he sank into a comfortable darkness.

A woman screamed.

Em sat bolt upright. There was no sense of time passing, and for an instant he had absolutely no idea where he was. Then he remembered and looked around frantically. Something was terribly wrong. The scream came again, followed by a stream of swearing that echoed from wall to wall. He started to scramble from his sleeping bag, fumbling with the zipper in his haste to get it open. A man’s voice tried to cut across the woman’s shrieks, but Em could not make out the words. He shook free of the bag eventually, moved quickly to the corner of the passage, and peered cautiously around it.

The men who’d chased him from the Salvation Army shelter were engaged in a ferocious altercation with a tiny, white-haired woman—the sleeping shape in the cardboard carton Em had seen earlier. The carton itself was tipped over on its side now, and the woman’s belongings—they looked like old rags and shoes—were scattered. One of the men had hold of her arm, but only in an attempt to stave off her furious attack. Even so, she managed to pummel him with her free hand while trying desperately to kick his legs and keep up a stream of abuse. Em could have kicked himself for not listening to his fear and moving on. It was only dumb luck that they’d disturbed this feisty little woman before they found him.

Em turned and ran. The shouts of the woman would cover any sound of his footfalls, so he had a real chance of getting away. He reached the steps with no sign of pursuit and took them two at a time. He emerged onto a darkened platform, slick with rain—this part of the station had no roof. A single, self-illuminated sign promised the next train at 6 a.m. Em ran to the end of the platform, breathing in waterlogged air, then dropped down onto the track and followed it all the way out of the station before climbing a fence into somebody’s backyard and then opening a gate that took him into an alley. Minutes later, he was back on the main streets.

He felt elated. He knew where his pursuers were tonight. If they were checking the station, it meant he would be safe somewhere else—
anywhere
else. Except possibly the shelters where his description might be circulated. His mind went back to the first thoughts he’d had when he went on the run. He could head for the canal and shelter under one of the bridges. His sleeping bag was waterproof and zipped up all around his head so that only his face would be exposed. That made a big difference. Although the weather was wet, it was still mild, so he’d be just as cozy as he’d been . . .

The thought remained unfinished as Em realized he’d left his sleeping bag in the passage at the railway station.

Chapter 19

T
he canal proved a mistake. He found a bridge quickly enough, but the wind blew rain right under it, so he might as well have lain down in the open. Worse still, somebody had been using this tiny stretch of canal bank as a toilet, and the smell was awful.

All the same he trudged along the bank in search of another bridge until the streetlamps ran out and darkness forced him to retrace his steps. It was well into the early hours of the morning now, and since he’d slept a little in the station passageway, he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t forget about shelter altogether and start a new day early. But it was just a passing thought. He knew he needed more sleep.

He found what he was looking for by accident. A stretch of canal bank ran parallel to a railway line . . . just where the railway entered a tunnel. Em climbed up the embankment, made a slippery descent down the other side, and headed straight for the tunnel.

He discovered there was a concrete apron on one side of the track broad enough for him to sleep on. He placed the palm of his hand against one wall of the tunnel and used it as a guide until all light faded and he was standing in pitch darkness. Then he slid down, curled up in a fetal position, and tried to settle himself for sleep.

He awoke with a light shining in his face.

Em scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. He was blinded and confused, but his instinct was to make a run for it. He could worry later about how they’d found him. He hit out blindly, somehow managed to slap the flashlight aside, and headed off like a rabbit. He caught his foot on the railway line and fell heavily. His pursuer—there only seemed to be one of them—was on him at once. Em tried desperately to struggle, but a knee in the small of his back pressed him down effectively. “Stop wriggling!” a voice hissed in his ear. “Look at me!”

Em turned his head as the man turned the flashlight to shine on his own face. “Victor?” Em gasped.

The pressure on his back eased abruptly as Victor climbed off him. “You never stop to think, do you? Same thing in the shelter: first hint of trouble and you’re off.”

Em brushed himself down. He’d grazed the palm of one hand but was otherwise unhurt. “What are you doing here, Victor?”

“Looking for you,” Victor said.

“How did you find me?”

Victor shrugged in the gloom. “Followed the boys chasing you. I don’t have time to explain. Where’s your mobile phone?”

There was a faint vibration underfoot.

“Why do you want my mobile phone?” Em asked suspiciously.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Em!” Victor snapped. “They’re using it to track you.”

Em’s eyes widened. “How do you know my name?” He’d been very, very careful not to mention it to Victor while they were in the shelter.

“I’ll explain later.” Victor held out a hand. “Phone?”

The vibration transformed itself into the distant sound of an approaching train.

“They can’t use it to track me,” Em said stubbornly. “It’s switched off.” His last call had been to Charlotte, and he’d switched it off afterward to save the battery.

“You really don’t know what you’re up against, do you, Em? Just give me the bloody phone. I managed to divert them, otherwise they’d have had you by now; but they’re not far away, and it’s only a matter of time before they pick up your signal again.”

“I told you,” Em protested. “I switched it off.” All the same, he pulled his phone from his pocket.

The train was closer now. Em could see the approaching lights and hear the rattle of the carriages echoing through the tunnel. He stepped back to flatten himself against the wall and instinctively reached out to pull Victor with him. Victor gripped his hand and took the phone. “Off or on, it’s still transmitting a signal,” Victor said. “Not many people know that, but they can use it to track you anywhere you go. The only thing that’s saved you so far is your habit of going underground. That confuses the signal and slows them down.”

The train was almost upon them now. The phone had cost Em’s father a hundred and forty pounds. Em watched in horror as Victor tossed it casually onto the track. Seconds later, in a rush of air and noise, the train crushed it to smithereens.

“There,” Victor said, “that’ll buy us time. But we still need to get out of here. Come on.” He grabbed Em’s arm, and together they began to walk down the track after the receding train.

Chapter 20

“W
here are we going?” Em asked. They were standing in a deserted street outside a grocer’s and a heavily shuttered pawnshop. Victor was in the process of inserting a key into the lock of a doorway between them. Em could imagine a stairway behind the door leading to rooms, or even flats, above the shops. But Victor shouldn’t have a key to anywhere. Victor lived in Salvation Army shelters. His only possessions were his
I Ching
paperback and the yarrow stalks.

But the key wasn’t the only odd thing about Victor. Now that they were out of the railway tunnel and into a part of town where the streetlights let Em see properly, Victor was a different man. He no longer had the look of a tramp. His clothes—jeans, sneakers, and Windbreaker—were casual but clean, and the sneakers looked positively new. The beard was no longer the matted, straggling bush of gray and white Em saw in the shelter. It had been neatly trimmed and, though Em couldn’t quite believe it, seemed to have been dyed, for it was now predominantly brown, with only the slightest hint of gray. The result was that Victor looked younger—quite a lot younger. And not just because of the beard. His walk was more confident, not an old man’s walk at all; and casting his mind back to the tunnel where Victor had easily held him down, it was clear to Em that Victor was far stronger than an old man ought to be.

“Safe house,” Victor said.

That didn’t make much sense either. Like most boys at his school, Em read thrillers despite his teachers’ disapproval. A safe house was where spies hid when they were on the run. But Victor couldn’t be a spy, unless he was spying on the Salvation Army.

The door opened, exactly as Em expected, on a cramped hallway and a flight of narrow wooden stairs. He hesitated.

“Come on,” Victor said. “The sooner we get you off the streets and hidden away, the happier I’ll be.” Even his voice had changed. It was firmer, more confident, although his accent stayed the same.

The staircase smelled of dust, and the flats it led to looked shabby. But only from the outside. When Victor used another key on the nearest door—there was a battered aluminum figure 1 screwed into the peeling paint work—it opened into a bright, well-furnished apartment. Em looked around in bewilderment. This wasn’t a rich man’s flat, but there was carpet on the floor and a dishwasher, washing machine, electric cooker, and breakfast bar in the kitchen area. There was even a small piano in the living room. Did Victor
own
this place? So what was he doing sleeping in shelters?

There were dead bolts on the inside of the door, and Victor slammed all four of them across before turning back to Em. “It’s steel lined,” he remarked. “Need a battering ram to get through it, so you’ll have plenty of time to escape if they do find you. Which they won’t.” He moved over to the window and twitched the curtain aside. Behind it was a small, brushed-steel lever set into a metal plate. “Releases an escape chute,” Victor said. “You can be out of here and on the street in seconds. It’s mechanical, so it will work even in a power cut.”

“Who are you?” Em asked soberly. By now only a muppet would have failed to work out that Victor wasn’t what he seemed to be—or at least not what he
had
seemed to be. This was no down-and-out, wherever he’d been sleeping lately.

“Would you like coffee? There’s some quite decent Costa Rican in the cupboard.”

“Is this one of those ‘if you tell me who you are, you’ll have to kill me’ deals?”

Victor smiled for the first time. “Something like that.”

“You’re MI5, aren’t you?” Em blurted. It was like something out of a movie, and even as he said it, he didn’t believe it; but it was no more unlikely than everything else that had been happening to him since his father died.

Victor shook his head. “No. No, I’m not. Let’s just say I work for something called Section 7. It’s a bit more secretive than MI5.”

Em blinked. “More secret than MI5? More secret than the Secret Service?”

Victor shrugged. “You can find MI5 headquarters in the phone book; they even have a website. Nothing very secret about that, is there? But you won’t find Section 7 listed anywhere; and if you could persuade anybody in authority to talk about it at all, they’d deny our existence.”

“So that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

“Actually, no, it isn’t. If you give me time to make the coffee, I’m going to tell you a great deal. Including some stuff even MI5 doesn’t know about.”

The smell of percolating coffee reminded Em that the last thing he’d eaten was a small bag of chips in the railway station the night before, and suddenly he was ravenous. He began to open cupboards in the kitchen area.

“There’s the remains of a cooked chicken in the fridge,” Victor told him. “I need to stock up properly now that there are two of us, but it’ll keep you going.” He began to pour the coffee into two large mugs and handed one to Em. It bore an inscription in multicolored script:
YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE THE VOICES ONLY TALK TO ME.

Em skipped the knife and fork to savage a chicken leg held in his fingers. Victor watched him over the rim of his coffee cup with an expression of amusement. After a moment, he opened a drawer in the table and threw across a paper napkin. Em used it to wipe his mouth, then his fingers as he asked, “Did you dye your beard?”

If Victor was surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. He shook his head. “This is my real color. I washed out the white and the gray. Didn’t need it anymore.”

“Why didn’t you shave it completely?” Em took his first sip of coffee. It was excellent.

“I have rather a distinctive scar. The beard hides it.” He reached across to pick a sliver of meat from the chicken. “Facial scars are rare—they mark you out. But lots of men wear beards.”

“Is Victor your real name?”

“No, but you can keep using it.”

“Do you live here?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Why were you in the Salvation Army shelter pretending to be homeless?”

“I was looking for you.”

Em stared at him. The old familiar feeling of sinking out of his depth came back full force. There was so much going on he didn’t understand. “How did you know I’d be there?”

“I didn’t,” Victor said. “When I found out that you were on the run, it seemed a homeless shelter would be a good place to start looking. I got lucky.” He shrugged. “There aren’t very many shelters in the town.”

“I was going to sleep under a bridge,” Em said inconsequentially.

Victor gave him a cynical glance. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Sleeping outdoors sounds easy until you actually try it. Then you head for the nearest shelter. It’s only when you can’t get in anywhere that you end up under a bridge or on a park bench. But you were a quick learner with the railway station and very brave trying the tunnel.”

Em didn’t want to think about finding a place to sleep tonight (except that he was going to sleep here, wasn’t he, in this safe house, with Victor?), didn’t want to think about the people chasing him. What he wanted was answers. “Victor,” he said, “what’s all this about?”

“Have you ever heard of the Knights of Themis?” Victor asked.